


Closer To Here Than You Care To be

by wedjateye



Category: Weiss Kreuz
Genre: Gunplay, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-17
Updated: 2011-09-17
Packaged: 2017-10-23 19:50:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/254208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wedjateye/pseuds/wedjateye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a ficlet written in response to an i-pod prompt from louiselux. It ended up being basically a song fic. Relevant song lyrics are at the end (the actual prompt was the three lines in italics). Not very graphic description of off-screen death of OC. May be disturbing (it's Schwartz!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Closer To Here Than You Care To be

Dreaming visions are the worst. They hit with a ferocity that can only be endured. A  
whiplash of  light, noise and smell; untempered by the filters consciousness imposes – the  
protective, practised remove, that allows vision elements to be ordered for later perusal  
and analysis.

 _Sheep in the fold of their master_

This one is a repeat. A psychedelic replay of  tonight's target dying right on cue; hands  
clutching his chest, lips blue. Poleaxed in the middle of a crowded dance floor. An  
untraceable execution. Schuldig's specialty.

 _Written, of course, by the mightiest hand  
_   


Old news. Crawford had seen the siphoned security footage for himself before retiring.  
Better not to leave anything to chance, clear as the original vision had been.

But here it is again. With surround sound, if the unearthly screeching raking  
Crawford's nerves qualifies as part of the human hearing range.

 _If you should die before you wake_

Surround sensation too. Smothering panic dragging Crawford deeper. Stifling his  
attempts to escape, to breathe. To suck in the air that the bug-eyed petty drug lord looks  
so very desperate for. Crawford's heart hammers a litany against his ribs. He will not  
succumb. This weight is not his; not his time, not his death…

 _I guarantee_

Gasping like a landed fish, Crawford finally emerges. One hand flinging itself  
convulsively for the light switch, the other scrabbling frantically at the crushing band of  
tightness that followed him out. Precog heart. He'd hoped to avoid this inevitability for  
far longer.

"Bradley-kins! Did you miss me?"

Rosenkrauz training was good for at least one thing. Even when your heart attack turns  
out to be a dementedly leering Schuldig, perched like a gargoyle in the centre of your  
chest, your face betrays nothing.

"Schuldig. Mission accomplished I see," Crawford comments dryly, ignoring the sweat  
trickling into his eyes. He reaches casually for his glasses, but Schuldig knocks them to  
the floor in a seemingly effortless blur of motion.

"You'll be replacing those in the morning," Crawford states in response to the sickening  
'crack'.

"Bradley!" Schuldig pouts. "I want _my_ present first. I've been such a busy boy."

Shit. His brain is still fuddled, to only now be picking up on Schuldig's huge pupils, the  
badly applied eyeliner, the tight scrap of glittering, purple, mesh shirt he wasn't wearing  
when he left tonight, and what on earth…

"What have you done to your hair?" Crap. Have to get those shields back up fully, or  
better yet get Schuldig out of his room, if his thoughts are so unguarded they spill out into  
actual speech. Maybe Schuldig is wasted enough not to think of looking.

'You like?" Schuldig asks, batting his eyelashes coquettishly.

Crawford regards the multiple uneven plaits sticking out at random angles, tufts of  
shocking pink and green… _feathers?_ … woven in haphazardly.

"You look like a Barbie-doll attacked by a bunch of psychotic preschool girls."

"Thank you," Schuldig preens.

Not alcohol. Crawford would have choked on the fumes by now. And Schuldig  
never does drugs of his own – no need, not when he can…

"Did you get the information?"

Schuldig giggles. "Oh, yes. What a ride. You didn't tell me our boy liked to partake of  
the merchandise."

High on the target's psyche, and no doubt his subsequent death.

"Yesss. It was the best." Schuldig reminisces dreamily. "I waited for just the right song  
too – aren't you glad I shared it with you?" His glee is only topped by the discordance of  
his singing: " _This is the number one song in heaven_."

Fuck. Sleep, proximity, years of association and Schuldig's sheer telepathic strength.  
Crawford tries not to feel rattled at how flimsy his shields have just been proven. That's  
why he has rules. Like no sleep-overs. And bloody big deadlocks on his bedroom door  
that are now all going to need changing.

"Association? Brad, I'm hurt! Doesn't regular fucking count for anything?" Schuldig  
smirks.

"Not for much," Crawford asserts, raising one eyebrow at Schuldig's disheveled clothing.

"Awww. Don't be jealous. The hookers got excited after I let them do my hair. Would  
have been rude to refuse," Schuldig purrs.

"I'm getting up, Schuldig. You're going to your own bed, and Nagi and I are going to  
spend the rest of the night tidying up whatever messes you've left behind." Calm  
certainty. Believe it, and it will be so.

"Not leaving," Schuldig whines petulantly.

"Fine," Crawford huffs as he struggles to sit up. "You stay, I have work to do."

"Uh uh," Schuldig disagrees, proving his point with a hard hand to Crawford's sternum,  
shoving him flat. "You're not leaving."

The harshness of Schuldig's tone contrasts with the gentleness of the caress whispering  
along Crawford's neck. A distinctly cool and _metallic_ caress. Crawford stops arguing.  
Most people do when confronted with the Glock he should have thought of retrieving  
from his nightstand several minutes ago.

"You're staying right here until we both go to heaven."

Schuldig is sliding down Crawford's body, dragging the gun after him. Crawford's breath  
catches as the barrel bumps over his collar bone. He bites back a pointless warning.  
Better to lose himself in wondering how Schuldig manages to circle his covered nipple  
perfectly with the weapon's butt. He moans reluctantly as Schuldig's chin rubs along the  
erection forming with shocking speed in his pyjamas.

Cool fingertips slide into the gaps between the buttons of his fly and Crawford tries not to  
jerk in response. Tries to lie still and breathe smoothly, as the snout of the sidearm  
presses in under ribs that want to heave. His heart throbs against the indentation; a throb  
that spreads lower, becomes an ache in response to tantalising touch along the shaft of his  
cock.

"Bradley! Flannel PJ's and no underwear. That's kinky," Schuldig laughs huskily. "I  
approve."

Schuldig hums as he frees the length of Crawford's cock, only to engulf it again  
immediately in loosely bunched, fuzzy material, that provides maddeningly little friction  
with Schuldig's languid strokes. Metal scrapes along Crawford's flank, finds the crease  
between hip and thigh as he pants open-mouthed, eyes tightly closed.

Disjointed, off-key phrases mingle with Schuldig's humming, and emerge in warm pants  
of breath against the head of Crawford's cock. 

" _Hearing it now_ …"

Crawford bites his lip hard against the pinch of hair, caught in the path of the gun's glide;   
snout teasing around the base of his erection, then nuzzling gently into his balls.

"You can't sing for shit," Crawford grates.

"Hmmm," Schuldig considers, increasing the pressure against Crawford's balls until the  
muscles in his groin are jumping. His jaw aches from gritting his teeth so hard, but a  
strangled moan still manages to escape as wet heat finally circles the straining tip of his  
erection.

~"Better?"~

"Much," Crawford agrees.

Music explodes behind his eyes. The pulsing disco beat drives away thought as  
effectively as the slick suction that moves gloriously from tip to base and back again.  
Schuldig somehow matches the frenetic rhythm and Crawford arches mindlessly into the  
sensation.

If Schuldig is determined to kill him tonight, he's finally found a method that Crawford  
won't fight.

"Closer!" Crawford screams.

  
This is the number one song in heaven  
Written, of course, by the mightiest hand  
All of the Angels are sheep in the fold of their master  
They always follow the Master and his plan

 _This is the number one song in heaven  
Why are you hearing it now, you ask  
Maybe you're closer to here than you imagine  
_maybe you're closer to here than you care to be  
It's number one, all over heaven (x 3)  
The number one song all over heaven

If you should die before you wake  
If you should die crossing the street  
The song that you'll hear, I guarantee

It's number one, all over heaven (x 3)  
The number one song all over heaven
    
    
      
    


  



End file.
